The mask felt cold in Adriano’s hands.
Moonlight spilt through the small window of his room, painting silver across the obsidian surface.
He turned it slowly.
Watching the light move across its smooth black curves.
It had always seemed strange.
Older than anything else he owned.
Older than the memories he could recall.
Yet somehow—
It had always belonged to him.
The sight of it pulled him backwards.
Into a memory.
*****
Rain hammered against the roof.
Thunder shook the little house.
Adriano was twelve.
And bored.
A dangerous combination.
Nonna Rosa had spent the entire afternoon cleaning.
Which meant Adriano had spent the entire afternoon being told not to touch things.
Naturally—
He touched everything.
Including the loose floorboard beneath an old cabinet.
It shifted when he stepped on it.
Adriano frowned.
Then crouched.
Curiosity won immediately.
The board lifted more easily than expected.
Beneath it sat a narrow compartment hidden inside the floor.
His eyes widened.
“A treasure.”
The declaration was immediate.
And entirely serious.
Inside rested a small wooden box wrapped in black cloth.
Adriano pulled it free.
Dust covered his hands.
His excitement doubled.
The box opened with a soft creak.
Inside lay an obsidian mask.
Black as midnight.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
The moment he touched it, a strange chill ran through him.
Then he noticed something else.
A folded piece of paper.
Old.
Fragile.
Nearly falling apart.
Carefully, he unfolded it.
Most of the ink had faded beyond recognition.
Only fragments remained.
“…when the shadows call…”
“…trust the mask…”
“…remember…”
“…who…”
The rest was gone.
Destroyed by time.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Adriano jumped.
Nonna Rosa stood in the doorway.
For a second—
Just a second—
Fear flashed across her face.
Real fear.
Not anger.
Not surprise.
Fear.
Then it vanished.
Hidden behind a gentle smile.
“Adriano.”
He looked between her and the mask.
“What’s this?”
Nonna Rosa crossed the room slowly.
She knelt beside him.
Her hands were trembling slightly.
The movement was so subtle he almost missed it.
The older woman touched the mask carefully.
As though greeting an old friend.
Or an old ghost.
Then she looked at him.
“Where did you find it?”
“Under the floor.”
Her eyes closed briefly.
Almost relieved.
Almost sad.
Finally, she cupped his face gently.
“Listen to me.”
Her voice softened.
More serious than usual.
“If anyone asks about this…”
She glanced at the mask.
“…you tell them nothing.”
Adriano blinked.
“Why?”
A shadow crossed her expression.
One that would make sense years later.
But not then.
“Because some things are safer hidden.”
Her hand squeezed his.
Then she added quietly:
“And never let anyone take it from you.”
*****
The memory vanished.
Adriano blinked.
Returning to the present.
The room around him slowly came back into focus.
The mask remained in his hands.
Silent.
Waiting.
Adriano immediately wrapped the mask in cloth and slid it beneath his bed.
The habit came naturally.
Almost instinctively.
“Come in.”
The door opened.
Signor Bianchi stepped inside.
The older man carried a lantern.
Its warm glow softened the shadows around him.
“You missed the archives today.”
Adriano leaned back in his chair.
“I needed to clear my head.”
Bianchi nodded.
“As one does when avoiding responsibilities.”
A faint smile appeared.
“Something like that.”
The older man studied him.
Then sat across from him.
The silence between them felt comfortable.
Familiar.
Not awkward.
“Still having the dreams?”
The question surprised him.
Only slightly.
Adriano sighed.
“Every night.”
Bianchi remained quiet.
Listening.
Waiting.
The way he always did.
“I don’t understand any of it.”
The words came easier than expected.
“The house.”
“The voices.”
“The memories.”
He shook his head.
“They don’t feel like dreams anymore.”
His eyes lowered.
“They feel real.”
Bianchi’s expression softened.
“Perhaps they are.”
Adriano laughed quietly.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“No.”
“It isn’t.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Adriano looked toward the window.
“The worst part is not knowing.”
Bianchi followed his gaze.
“Knowing can be far more dangerous.”
Adriano frowned.
The answer sounded oddly personal.
Before he could ask—
The door burst open.
Tomaso entered.
Immediately.
Without knocking.
As usual.
He stopped.
Looked between them.
Then narrowed his eyes dramatically.
“Are we having an emotional conversation?”
Adriano groaned.
“No.”
“Good.”
Tomaso nodded.
“I wasn’t prepared.”
Bianchi sighed.
“Most people knock.”
“I did.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“I considered it.”
“That doesn’t count.”
Tomaso looked offended.
“It should.”
Adriano laughed.
The sound escaped before he could stop it.
Tomaso pointed triumphantly.
“There.”
“What?”
“That.”
“What?”
“You smiled.”
Adriano threw a pillow.
Tomaso dodged.
Barely.
The pillow struck the wall.
Bianchi pinched the bridge of his nose.
The boys ignored him completely.
Later, when the room finally settled—
Bianchi stood.
“I think it’s time.”
Adriano frowned.
“For what?”
The older man moved toward the window.
Looking out at the sleeping town.
“A change of scenery.”
Adriano blinked.
“What?”
“For a few days.”
Bianchi turned.
“The dreams are consuming you.”
“The questions are consuming you.”
“The town isn’t helping.”
Adriano considered arguing.
Instead, he listened.
“There is a hunting hut.”
Bianchi folded his arms.
“Past the cliffs.”
“Past the ruins.”
“Further than most people travel.”
Adriano frowned.
“Why there?”
A strange expression crossed Bianchi’s face.
Gone almost immediately.
“Because it is quiet.”
The answer sounded rehearsed.
Before Adriano could question it—
Tomaso sat upright.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
“Still no.”
Tomaso looked betrayed.
“You’re crushing my spirit.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I might not.”
“You will.”
Adriano laughed again.
Tomaso pointed.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The smile.”
Another pillow flew across the room.
The next morning arrived quickly.
Too quickly.
The sun had barely risen when Adriano set out.
His pack rested over one shoulder.
The road stretched ahead.
Valdoro slowly woke behind him.
He had almost reached the edge of town when familiar voices stopped him.
“Adriano!”
He turned.
Chiara.
Matteo.
And Luca.
Approaching from the market road.
Perfect.
Of course.
Matteo immediately looked at the bag.
Then at him.
Then back at the bag.
“You running away?”
Adriano sighed.
“No.”
“Suspicious answer.”
“I’ve been sent to do some work.”
“For who?”
“Signor Bianchi.”
Matteo nodded dramatically.
“Still suspicious.”
Chiara rolled her eyes.
“Ignore him.”
“I usually do.”
“Rude.”
Adriano smiled.
Matteo looked personally offended.
Luca remained unusually quiet.
Watching.
Observing as Adriano continued on his journey.
His gaze lingered longer than necessary.
Something felt strange.
Not dangerous.
Familiar.
The sensation tugged at him briefly.
Like the faint echo of a distant memory hidden inside stone.
Before he could understand it—
Another voice interrupted.
“He’s leaving?”
Marco.
Everyone turned.
The older Marino approached.
Hands in pockets.
Expression unreadable.
“Finally.”
Silence.
Three pairs of eyes landed on him instantly.
Chiara.
Matteo.
Luca.
The collective disappointment was devastating.
Marco frowned.
“What?”
Nobody answered.
Instead, they turned and walked away.
Leaving him standing there alone.
Confused.
Annoyed.
And strangely guilty.
Though he’d never admit it.
Not even under torture.
Hours later.
Valdoro disappeared behind Adriano.
The cliffs rose ahead.
Ancient.
Silent.
Beyond them stretched lands few people visited.
Beyond them waited the forgotten valley.
And somewhere behind him—
Inside the archives.
Inside the town.
Inside the secrets buried beneath Valdoro—
The truth continued to stir.
Waiting.
Watching.
Remembering.